Yesterday was a productive day for writing, today not so much. I did a little of this, a little of that. Chicago finally hit cable. When I saw it in the theaters it was hard to take in--I'd expected something like Victor/Victoria, where the show numbers were subordinate to the movie format, rather than defining its structure. It threw me off. I like it a lot better now on rewatching. Queen Latifah's big number slays me every time I see it, Catherine Zeta-Jones's style has grown on me, and I love that one of the death-row girls killed her boyfriend for popping his gum. She could be my patron saint or something.
I'm so not ready to go to work tomorrow.
Last night, maybe inspired by Thamiris, I had this deep, well-thought out, probing question I was going to ask about why we love hateful characters, characters who if they were real would drive us beserk until we smacked them to death with a mallet. Or maybe send us running and screaming. Snape, Spike, Krycek, Lindsey, Snyder. Morality is a pointless consideration. Fascination doesn't usually have anything to do with whether your ethics align. Characters are either interesting or they're not. That's the only judgment worth making. Charismatic casting can be the hook, and then you get this engaging mix of the evil and the sexy. And it's in those grey overlapping spaces--a kind of liminal space?--that things get complex and sticky, keeping us buzzing with our feet in the fly-paper.
I said "liminal." Heh heh heh. Um. Yes. So that was going to be a question, but isn't.
I did have another thought this weekend. But it escaped.